


Keep Your Head Low

by The_Midnight_Girl



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Midnight_Girl/pseuds/The_Midnight_Girl
Summary: Bill Brown is one of the workers in Hadestown. He works hard, in hell, and at the end of a shift he drinks with his friends, and together they try to hold on to their memories. When he shows them his secret project, though, he accidentally risks his existence, and finds out the fate of one of Hadestown's most notorious criminals.
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Hadestown)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Keep Your Head Low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kay_obsessive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_obsessive/gifts).



“Our good Queen,” said Phillip the taleteller, with the ring in his voice that always started one of his stories, “Persephone…” He paused, letting the cheer die down as everyone in earshot – Bill Brown, Ally the smith (who had one arm), One-Armed Gene (who had two), and Kristen, that is to say the usual mob who drank every night they could at the same table in The Garden of Summer Light – raised a glass to the Queen. “Bringer of the sweet smell of spring, dispenser of those precious memories of the On Top,” – another cheer – “was not always as we know her now. She and our Lord Hades, “ – a wary, respectful hush – “have not been on the outs forever. Once upon a time, their sea was calm, and they sailed happily together. Many believe that the first storm to whip up the waves that crash, to this day, against their matrimonial vessel, was caused by a deceitful trickster, known as Sisyphus King.” Some boos, recognising a familiar villain. 

“He conned Persephone into letting him leave Hadestown,” Phillip said, “despite having signed, sealed, and delivered his contract.” More boos, though there was not one amongst them who would not have done the same, had they been able. “When Hades found out, he drove that big black car right through the gates of Hadestown and out to the On Top, hunted Sisyphus King all the way back to his hometown, then tied him up and shoved him in the trunk. When they got him back here, they paraded him on a rope around town, before dragging him into Tartarus where he still remains, until his contract expires.”

Tartarus. The word sent a shiver around the mob. The black pit in the center of town. The hell of hell. “Good story,” Bill said, eventually, breaking the silence. “I’ll remember it.” The others echoed his sentiment “I’ll remember it.” Because memory matters in Hadestown. Some say that it’s all that matters: holding on to who you are, what you were. That’s what Persephone brings back from the On Top, every autumn. Little bottles, filled with the memory of summer, of happy days, of easy times. Little shots that keep the greyness away, that keep you you, rather just a cog in Hades’ machine.

Later that night, Bill – a little inebriated– brought the others back to his digs. “I can trust you,” he said to them, and they all averred. “I’ve been making something, in my off time.” Of course, his digs were the same as all of theirs – a bed, a washbasin, a wardrobe. From the top of the wardrobe he pulled out a wooden box, and opened it to show them. Inside was a tiny steel model, beautifully fashioned, of a woman and a child. “My family,” Bill explained. “Still On Top.”

“Where did you get the steel?” Ally asked, marvelling at the workmanship.

“Just little offcuts, nothing that’s of any use,” Bill said. “When I’m on the snips in the foundry, occasionally tiny slivers of steel drop get trimmed onto the floor. And sometimes I pick them up and shove them into my overalls.”

They were all impressed, not only with his craftsmanship, and the beauty of his model, but with the daring. 

“That’s one in the eye for Hades!” One-Armed Gene said. “Using his own material to hold on to your family.”

“It’s so lovely,” said Kristen. “You’re wasted on the snips and the grinder.”

And they all went back to their digs, with just the hint of a tear in their eyes, sure they had seen another one of those cracks, the ones that let the light in.

The next day, in the foundry, Bill was on the snips, Ally on the hammer, Phillip on the cart and One-Armed Gene and Kristen working the welder, when a call went out over the tannoy. “Bill Brown to the foreman. Bill Brown to the foreman.” So Bill set the snips down, and went to the foreman. 

“Man,” the foreman says. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but it’s bad news. You’re to go to the foundry boss.”

So Bill went to the foundry boss, who had one of those offices high above the foundry floor, from where he could look out over all the workers and make sure they looked busy. He knew as he climbed the metal mesh stairs that everyone would see him, and know that he was in trouble. He just couldn’t work out why.

When he got to the foundry boss’s office, the boss wasn’t alone. There were two hulking presences, all shiny suits and no necks, shadowing in the corner. “Bill,” the foundry boss said, like he knew him. “You got to go to the big boss.” 

“The big boss?” Bill said. He knew this was serious. 

“Yeah. Hades wants to see you. Go with these… “ The foundry boss struggled for the word. “... these gentlemen.”

So Bill went back down all the stairs, with one gentleman in front, and one behind, and he knew for sure that everyone had seen him now, and they all knew he was in trouble.

The two gentlemen took him all the way to Hades’ office, up another flight of clanging metal stairs, metal stairs that Bill Brown realised, about half way up, he’d probably snipped or welded or poured the steel that made them. He wasn’t sure whether or not to be proud of that, or resentful, that Hades got this palatial office while he sweated away in the foundry.

The gentlemen led Bill into that office, and onto a thick, soft, carpet in front of a desk that Bill’s practiced eye judged to be larger than his digs. Behind the desk, a high–backed chair was turned away from him.

Bill stood for what felt like forever, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, and rather hoping that he might be allowed to go back to work soon. When the silence was broken, it was with the sound of tectonic plates grinding against each other. It took a while before Bill realised they were forming words. 

“You have been stealing from me.”

“Great Hades! No. Never... Oh. You  _ are  _ great Hades.” Bill’s words stumbled over each other.

The chair slowly rotated. “You signed a contract with me.”

“It was Zagreus, I signed with, actually, not you. Not spoken to you… uh… I’ll shut up.”

In Hades’ hands, now, Bill saw his little steel sculpture. “You deny stealing the steel from my foundry? Stealing the time from your labors? Stealing from your compatriots? From all of my children in Hadestown?”

“It’s… offcuts. Just offcuts. Just a silly little thing.”

“Stolen. Breaking your contract. Breaking your vow.”

“I’m sorry, great Lord. I didn’t mean…”

Hades expression barely changed. “It doesn’t matter what you meant. You shall be taken to Tartarus, and set to work on the wheel until you and your crime have been forgotten.”

Bill Brown was about to speak, to plead, when he saw Hades’ hand close into a fist around his sculpture, twisting and crushing the fine steel limbs into an unrecognisable mess. Instead of a plea, all that came out of his mouth was a sob, and he let himself be led away from the presence, his head down and his shoulders slumped, barely lifting his feet out of the deep pile of Hades’ carpet.

After he had gone, the door opened, and a breeze wafted in, smelling of summer flowers and cheap booze. “Can I have it?” Persephone asked, perching on the edge of Hades’ desk.

“What?” Hades said.

“The sculpture. The one you’ve sentenced that poor unfortunate to oblivion for.”

“I suppose. It’s ruined now, anyway.” Hades tossed it to her. “A ball of scrap metal.”

Persephone inspected it closely. “Perhaps,” she murmured, thoughtfully. Then, brighter, with a note of insincerity that she knew would irritate Hades. “Thanks, husband!” She slid off the desk and sashayed out of his office.

Tartarus is at the very centre of Hadestown, of course. A rusted iron drum of a building, prone to grim banging noises even in the absence of wind. The gentlemen half-led, half-shoved Bill Brown towards the door, which clanged shut behind him with all the finality you would expect. Through one set of doors, along a corridor smelling of damp metal, to another set. 

“Don’t fall,” one of the gentlemen rumbled. “It’s a long way down.” The door opened, revealing a vast chamber, dark and shadowy, driven into the depths beneath Hadestown. Around the edge, Bill could just make out a spiral track, around the outer perimeter of the chamber, leading up out of the depths to end on a little platform immediately in front of the door. With a sniff of professional disapproval, he noted the absence of any form of safety railing. Bill heard a rhythmic grinding sound, as if someone was sharpening a knife, slowly gaining in volume.

“Wait,” the gentleman said. “He’s nearly here. Best to let this trip finish.”

The grinding sound grew louder and louder, until Bill saw a giant stone, with a diameter easily greater than the height of a man, slowly ascending up the track. It drew closer and closer, until it rested on the platform in front of Bill, and then continued, to fall off the other side. With a huge bang, it landed on the loop of the spiral below, and then, with loud but retreating noise, rolled – slowly at first, then faster and faster, around the spiral and down, presumably to the very bottom. It was then that Bill noted the emaciated figure, who had somehow been propelling the stone all the way up the track. 

“Sisyphus King!” 

The figure turned to look at him with defeated, empty, hollow, eyes, and then continued the turn, shambling down the track after the descending stone.

“To your … installation,” one of the gentlemen rumbled. “Unless you’d like to take over?”

“No, I’m sure…” Bill couldn’t imagine anything worse than pointlessly rolling a stone up all that way, only for it to roll back down. 

The gentlemen took him down the spiral a way, and then into a little side room. On the wall was a large metal wheel, of the kind used with stopcocks on large pipes, or to open hatches on ships. “Turn the wheel from the left to the right,” one of the gentlemen said.

“How many times?” Bill asked. 

“Until it doesn’t turn any more.”

“When will that be?”

“Depends how fast you turn.”

“What does it do?”

“Nothing.”

With that, the gentlemen left, leaving Bill with the wheel. He tried turning it, and found that, though it required some effort, it wasn’t exactly hard. “I suppose I’d better,” he said, and he started to turn it in earnest.

At first, he was bored. He stood there, turning the wheel from the left to the right, over and over. He remembered the mob. Phillip the storyteller, Ally the smith. One-Armed Gene. Kristen. He remembered his wife and his kid. 

And still he turned the wheel. Minutes turned into hours, hours bled into days. He didn’t get hungry or thirsty, or need to rest or use the restroom. He turned the wheel from the left to the right.

He remembered the mob. Or, some of them. Ally who had one arm. Two-armed Dean. Some others. The On Top seemed a long way away, but he remembered smells and sounds. Just.

Days turned to weeks.The wheel turned. Everything turned. Left to right. All that mattered was the wheel. If he could just finish turning it, he’d go back. Go back to… the foundry. He remembered the foundry. He remembered heat, and sound, and meaningful work.

Occasionally he heard Sisyphus King rolling the stone past his little cell, but he couldn’t pay attention to that. He had his own work. Important work. Turning his wheel. It had to go from the left to the right. He was a wheel turner, and this was his wheel. This was his place, his purpose.

Then, one day, or night – he wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter much in Hadestown, and it didn’t matter at all here, – the wheel stopped. No matter how hard he tried, the wheel wouldn’t move. The turner felt bereft. Shocked. Empty. Someone came to his cell.

“Time to go,” the gentleman said.

“My… wheel…” It had been a long time since the turner had spoken. 

“You’ve been promoted. You’re going back to the foundry.”

The turner didn’t like the foundry, at first. It was full of people, and they talked to each other, rather than concentrating on their work. He longed for the simplicity, the security, of his wheel. After a while, though, he came to appreciate the feeling of something being produced, something being made from his effort. And because out here he grew tired, and needed to rest, he started to value the time he spent in his digs, sleeping.

This routine continued for a week or so after he had been returned, until one evening, someone knocked on his door. “Bill,” they hissed.

He opened the door. “Who is Bill?” he asked. “I’m the turner. I turn… I turned.” He felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Outside there were four people.

“No. You’re Bill. Bill Brown. And I’m Ally, the smith. That’s Phillip, the storyteller. That’s Kristen. And that, there, is Fat-Mouthed Gene, who should know better than to talk about secrets to people that can’t be trusted and is very sorry.”

The turner shook his head. “I don’t know you. And I don’t know Bill.” 

The invaders looked at each other, then looked sad, and went away, to the relief of the turner. He just wanted to be left in peace to work and sleep.

The next day, though, they came back, only they weren’t alone. With them, there was a woman. It wasn’t her beauty that made him gasp, though. It was that seeing her made him think of sunlight on a leaf, and he’d forgotten that was even a thing.

“I do see,” Persephone said. “And I think... “ She was carrying a bag, and she pulled from it a crushed metal ball, and handed it to the turner.

“What?” he said. Then he looked at it, and it looked wrong. “It’s bent,” he said, and he sat down on the floor of his little digs, and started to try to straighten it. 

“Here,” said Fat-Mouthed Gene. “Use this.” He handed over a small metal rod. “Least I could do.”

Slowly, while the mob watched, the turner straightened out the model, all his attention on it. It would never be perfect again, but he could remember how it was supposed to look. Who it was supposed to look like. He remembered a woman laughing. The same woman, gaunt with hunger, the laughter lost. He remembered signing a contract. He looked up at the concerned faces. “I’m Bill. Bill Brown.”

“Go on,” urged Kristen.

“We drink in the corner of the bar. Phillip tells stories. Ally talks about her girlfriend. You’re a weepy drunk. And Gene boasts.”

“Not any more,” Gene said.

“You remember,” Ally said, beaming.

“Not… everything. But I do. I’m Bill,” Bill said. “I work the snips, and I keep my head low.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to S and C for the beta-reading.


End file.
